


Worth My Wings

by thebisexualbanshee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12, 12.03, Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Castiel-centric, Coda, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mary Winchester - Freeform, Monologue, POV, Romantic Fluff, Season 12 spoilers, Spoilers, religious, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:06:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8437888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebisexualbanshee/pseuds/thebisexualbanshee
Summary: Castiel returns to the bunker to find Sam and Dean in distress about Mary's disappearance. He finds Dean, and resolves to share his true feelings in hopes of convincing the elder hunter of his worth. (Castiel POV)





	

_With shortness of breath you explained the infinite_  
_How rare and beautiful it is to even exist_  
  
***

I know something is wrong the moment I arrive home. The bunker is quiet. Not oppressively so, but it isn't a peaceful kind of silence either. Everything echoes and clangs in the vast, empty hallways and vaulted rooms; it's the kind of quiet that feels like standing on the edge of something--like holding your breath. It feels like waiting.

The main room is dark beneath the stairs, but I can make out Sam's lanky figure, slumped in a chair in the library. "Sam?" I call out, though I know he's heard me; there's no way he didn't hear the creaking door and my heavy footfalls on the metal stairs.

"Cas. Hey," he answers. His voice is dull.

"Are you alright? What's happened?" Sam won't look at me. He doesn't look at anything. As I near, I notice the almost-empty liquor bottle to his left and the sweating glass in his hand. "Sam..."

"Mom's gone," he mumbles back to me. "She left."

My stomach twists--these human feelings are still so strange and unexpected, even after all this time--and I suppose, based on the way Sam shakes his head, my voice betrays my emotions. "Mary's gone? Why? Is she alright?"

"It's a grief thing," Sam shrugs, takes a moment to drain the rest of his glass. "I mean, I get it. A few days ago we were kids. Dad was alive. She was happy. We're hers, but we're not hers."

"Oh, Sam..." I begin, but he waves me off, going to stand.

"You should go check on Dean," he says. He abandons his glass and instead grabs the neck of the nearly-finished whiskey bottle. He staggers a bit, but reaches out to pat my shoulder; I recognize it as a gesture of human gratitude and companionship. "He's been in the kitchen floor all night."

"How long has she been gone?" I ask, my brows lowering. A pang pulls in my chest; I can't pretend these feelings belong to Jimmy anymore. This is my body now, and the things I feel are mine.

"Yesterday," Sam sniffs, woozing a bit on his feet. I reach out to steady him, but he waves me off. "He could use you there. I don't think we're good for each other right now, you know? And you guys--profound bond, or whatever."

I lower my hand and nod to the taller Winchester. "Of course, Sam," I answer more softly. "Will you be alright?"

"Just need some sleep," he grumbles, turning to shuffle and stumble down the dark hall. "Thanks, Cas. For coming home."

He's gone before I can answer. That feeling rises in my chest again--that tugging and wrenching, like someone has reached inside me to wring me out. I wish I'd never said that about the 'more profound bond.' I'm not sure it's true anymore. I think it hurts Sam--or maybe I'm reading too much into his nuances. I still do that too often. And Dean--well, it's definitely different. But I don't think it's _more._ Sam is my brother, too. Sam is my family. I want to call him back and tell him, to force him into one of those embraces he always shies away from--but my feet don't move that direction. They move towards the kitchen--towards _not more, but different._

The kitchen is dark, but not like the main room. Little fixtures and a small light above the door cast an ambient, bluish glow on the room, and I see Dean's legs on the floor behind the island. The tightness in my stomach climbs into my throat--but this often happens with Dean. After eight years, it's become easier to manage.

"Dean?" I speak up softly, trying not to startle him as I round the corner. I crouch beside him, holding the top of the island for support. His head is hanging, and he's staring down at whatever's left of the beer bottle in his hand. Six or seven more empty ones litter the floor nearby, some tipped onto their sides.

Dean doesn't immediately look at me, but I see his body language change. His shoulders roll back and stiffen, and he wipes a hand from his forehead down to rub at the scruff on his chin. "Cas, hey," he rumbles softly. He has to clear his throat before he speaks again. "How's the hunt for Lucifer going?"

I sigh. I don't mean to, but I sigh. How very typically Winchester of him. A long time ago, I would've said I didn't understand, but now I do. Now, I've been there--felt that need to swaddle feeling, to protect it like an infant. And the frustration instantly fades. I can't find it within me to be angry at his deflecting. Not anymore. Not this time.

"I spoke with Sam," I say. "About Mary." I watch as he stiffens, watch that mask I know so well crack open as he lifts his beer. "Dean, I'm so sorry. If there's anything..." I trail off. I hate moments like these. I never know how to say exactly what I want to. Never know if the timing is right. So often, it isn't. So often, I speak and do more harm.

"Yeah, I uhh--don't want to talk about it," Dean grumbles, head hanging forwards again. "I'm glad you're here, Cas," he adds. The tightness in my chest releases--opens like a flower inside me, fills my gut with TV static. I still have the most difficult time figuring out what words to use. Humans are so complicated. So wonderful.

I want so badly to help. Seeing him like this--the man I've given everything for, and would give everything for a thousand times over--breaks me down. And suddenly, I wonder if he knows what he is to me. If he can possibly understand. I slowly seat myself beside him, lean up against the island. He still looks down at his beer, and I let my head loll back. Close my eyes.

"You know, I'm old, Dean--not the oldest thing out there, or even close to the oldest angel--but I'm old. By your count, in human time, I've been alive for...oh, millennia."

"I know, Cas. I--" he begins, and I'm gentle, or I think I'm gentle, but I shake my head and pat his leg, only briefly, to interrupt.

"No, Dean--you think you know. But I want you to understand. I need you to know some things about me. About my life before you." Dean is silent. I remove my hand, fold it with the other in my lap. "Is that alright?" He nods, and again, I let my eyes close. I hear him shuffle, turn to watch me. I love thinking about his eyes--so green and bright and heavy--watching me.

"I was here when--ah, forgive me, I'm going to monologue--was here when the earth was only stone and water. Before it had a name. Before that, even. I was young--I'd only just found my awareness, but I remember being in Heaven with my older brothers and sisters, and looking down as my Father crafted planets and asteroids and stars. His hands..." I open my eyes, lift my own palms and mimic the movements I can hardly remember now, but could never really forget. I notice Dean still watching me, but I don't look back at him. I'm afraid I might get lost if I do.

"His hands pulled light from nowhere--spoke fire into being and wound it into a tight, red ball. Wove the earth's crust around it. Made water. Snapped his fingers and filled an empty void with bodies of flame--Dean, _he decided stars were and they were_. And when he came home, he taught us the names of his creations. And we worshipped--bodiless, formless, free--we worshipped. What we did--you might call it singing, dancing--art forms for our Father. We watched him create _being._ I was there to witness the beginning of _is_.

I take a deep breath; I realize suddenly that my human body, though it might not need sleep, still requires respiration. On the exhale, I lower my hands into my lap. Dean is still staring, and he looks beautiful like this--for a moment his grief is forgotten; his eyes are sharp with wonder. I smile in spite of myself; for that moment, he seems every bit like Sam's brother, all wide-eyed awe. I close my eyes again, but leave my head turned in his direction.

"And I remember _life._ I remember being at a shoreline. Watching a little gray fish heave itself up onto the beach, and an older brother saying, 'Don't step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish.' And we were given our assignments--builders, soldiers, healers--guardian angels, planets and parts of Heaven we could rule--" I pause, open my eyes to wink at Dean, "Saturn technically belongs to me. Some cultures figured that much out. In Greece, they called me Cronus, though the myths they wrote about me are truly only myths. In Egypt, they knew me as Horus; many in the Hebrew faith called me the Father of Time, or the Angel of Solitude and Tears. The latter, I suppose, proved somewhat true, but--Dean."

It's only now that I open my eyes and break from my thoughts, notice Dean's expression has morphed from awestruck into something almost reverent; fearful. "Dean, what is it?"

He blinks at me and shakes his head. I press on. "Please, Dean. Would you like me to stop?"

"No, Cas, I--" Dean's voice is rough and low. He clears his throat before he speaks again. "I guess it's just--I just forget sometimes, you know? What you are. Too comfortable with you, maybe."

"I want you to be," I interject. The tightness in my chest feels like a fist again. What is this? Rejection? Or the fear of it? Have I frightened him? "I'm not--I'm not who I was, back then. I'm better now. More human than I ever dreamed. I'm so much better."

Dean swallows hard, and I don't stop myself--I let instinct take over, let the squeezing in my chest drive my hands forwards to catch both of his, angling my whole body to face him. "That's not why I'm telling you this. You should never--I don't want you to be afraid of me. I just need you to understand."

Dean stiffens as I take his hands--my stomach lurches--but he settles eventually, and even hooks his thumbs over the top of my knuckles. He lets me hold them, and the tightness inside me bursts into flames. Again, I can't stop myself from smiling. He nods, and I continue.

"Dean, I've flown through galaxies and nebulae. I've skipped across time the way humans skip stones on a pond--I've been in the spaces where the ripples touch, where circles upon circles collide and multiply into infinity. I've fought countless wars--I was assigned to be a soldier, and before I met you, it was all I'd ever known. The mission. The Holy Decree. And I never questioned it. Never once. And then I was handed down a mandate from Heaven to pull a man from Hell--the man meant to be my brother's vessel, who'd bring about the apocalypse and defeat the Devil once and for all." A strange kind of shame crawls across Dean's features, and I shake my head. He tries to draw his hands back, but I tighten my grip.

"The point--what I want you to understand, what I _need_ you to hear is--I've seen incomparable beauty and impenetrable darkness; witnessed the birth of every creature in existence, and the death of almost as many; I've seen your sun as an infant, seen unfettered creation and unbridled chaos, and still--when I led my garrison into Hell, when I touched your soul--"

I withdraw one hand and place it on his shoulder, the place that used to bear my hand print, and that I secretly wish still did. "I touched your soul, and all of it paled in comparison. I rebuilt you--studied every atom and molecule and freckle from my Father's original design--mixed the colors in your eyes so carefully. I had to get everything just right. The moment I laid a hand on you in Hell, I was lost. And I need you to understand that I don't want to be found."

I feel Dean shudder beneath my touch, but he doesn't withdraw. He doesn't blink. Does he realize he's begun to cry? I don't know. But I don't bring it up. He'd hate it if I did, and I love that I know that.

When he finally speaks, it's a near-whisper; grating, and low, and I can hear his heart in his voice; feel the vibration of his soul, like I did all those years ago. "Cas, I...How--why?"

I smile, just barely, and shake my head. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. But you? This?" I reach up with my other hand, place it on his cheek, and feel him lean just slightly into my palm. "Was worth rebelling for. Was worth everything. Will always be worth everything. My wings, my grace, my life--I'd give it, all of it, for you. Every time."

"Why?" Dean whispers. His chest hitches. I know he'd hate it, but I know he knows, and I know right now he doesn't care.

"Because," I smile at him, and lean forwards, tipping my forehead to his. We stare at each other, and my heart is racing--and I don't know why I've waited so long for this. "Angels see all these things, have all this power, but humans? You get the best thing. And we get jealous. You get love. I found it--found you. And I'm selfish."

"And this, here, with you," I hush, unable to speak anymore--my lips are too close to Dean's, and he's breathing away my voice. "This is worth my wings."

**Author's Note:**

> The song that's quoted at the beginning and that inspired the work is "Saturn" by "Sleeping At Last." Written as Castiel. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> ETA: Oh goodness, I'm humbled that so many people have left kind words and commented. I'm pretty new to fic writing, and mostly do it for myself, so I never expected even a few kudos, much less this many! Y'all have made my heart happy. I'm so amazed that people enjoy this! Thank you!!! <3


End file.
